


The Whistle Echoes

by extasiswings



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, North & South AU, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 20:32:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15518028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extasiswings/pseuds/extasiswings
Summary: If someone had told her a year ago that she would find herself in this position, Lucy would have laughed in their face. Back then, leaving Milton was her dearest wish. Back then, she thought Milton was hell, with its cotton and its strikes and the way industry seeps from its every pore. But now—Milton has taken things from her, that much is true. Her mother. Amy Wallace, who had become her dearest friend only to be ripped away. Her father. Her...innocence.But at the same time, it has also given her more than Helstone ever did, more than London ever could. Milton has allowed her to see the world as it really is, to seepeopleas they really are, even herself.





	1. Lucy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madsthenerdygirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madsthenerdygirl/gifts).



> An AU of Elizabeth Gaskell's North & South (or perhaps more familiarly, the BBC miniseries adaptation with Richard Armitage). What can I say? I'm not that difficult to enable.

“We’ll leave at once,” Emma says. “The servants can stay and pack up the house, but I’m certainly not inclined to stay a moment longer than absolutely necessary in this horrible, filthy place. It’s no wonder your parents—Lucy? Are you listening?”

In fact, Lucy has not been listening. Not at all, not even a little. Because her father is dead—her father is _dead_ —and she can’t wrap her mind around it. Can barely breathe because of it, not only because it means never seeing him again, but because of everything else that must inevitably follow. 

Leaving Milton. 

If someone had told her a year ago that she would find herself in this position, Lucy would have laughed in their face. Back then, leaving Milton was her dearest wish. Back then, she thought Milton was hell, with its cotton and its strikes and the way industry seeps from its every pore. But now—

Milton has taken things from her, that much is true. Her mother. Amy Wallace, who had become her dearest friend only to be ripped away. Her father. Her...innocence. 

But at the same time, it has also given her more than Helstone ever did, more than London ever could. Milton has allowed her to see the world as it really is, to see _people_ as they really are, even herself. 

Lucy isn’t a fool, she knows she can’t stay. Not as a woman alone with no parents to support her, no independent means, or no one to marry. And yet, the thought of getting in a carriage and disappearing without a word is...unbearable. 

“I can’t,” Lucy replies. “Leave immediately, that is. I have...friends here. There are people I need to say goodbye to.”

“I can’t imagine finding anyone to be friends with in a place like this.” 

Lucy bites back her initial retort that she can’t imagine anyone here wanting to be friends with Emma, even as the other woman arches an eyebrow distastefully at the wallpaper. 

“Be that as it may,” she says. “I really must pay a visit to Marlborough Mills. I shouldn’t be long.”

Emma waves her off. “Fine. As long as you’re back in time for us to catch the evening train. I’m not staying here overnight.”

It’s all the permission Lucy needs, and she jumps at the chance to escape the house before Emma can send her with an escort, taking no more time than necessary to grab her father’s Plato off the shelf. 

Lucy makes it halfway up the street in the carriage before her resolve begins to waver. She’s hardly seen Garcia Flynn since the end of the strike. Since the day he—

_I don’t wish to possess you, I wish to marry you because I love you!_

_You shouldn’t. Because I do not like you, and never have._

—Lucy flushes at the memory, half in shame recalling her own actions, half in...something else entirely. 

(For all that she insisted to Amy that she was the last woman in Milton who would ever want him, she has never, in fact, been entirely indifferent. When he proposed to her, however clumsily, she hadn’t been in a state to hear it. She was angry over Amy’s illness, angry at the assumption that the only reason he was asking was out of some misguided, patronizing attempt to rescue her reputation, and so she hadn’t really listened. Instead, she lashed out, throwing it back in his face without even a thought given to the fact that he’d already lost a wife and child and therefore wasn’t likely to offer a proposal lightly.) 

When she has seen him, it hasn’t been particularly comfortable. Especially after her mother passed, after that night at the train station with Wyatt when Flynn saw them together and assumed—well, she knows what he assumed. 

_I hope you realize that any foolish passion for you on my part is entirely over._

Given that, it may be for the best if she tells the carriage driver to turn around. Goodness knows she hasn’t done much to endear herself to him lately. Flynn may very well _want_ her to leave and never come back. 

And yet—and yet, she can’t make the words come to change course. She can’t _not_ say goodbye. 

“Miss?” The carriage stops. “Marlborough Mills, miss.” 

_Well. Now or never._

The thrum of machines splinters the air, as it always does during working hours, but the noise is deafened slightly inside the main house where a housemaid informs her that Mr. Flynn’s mother is not in, but that Mr. Flynn himself is in the home office if she would like to see him. Lucy ignores the scrutinizing glance she gets when she says yes, as well as the whispers and giggles from another pair of maids in the corner. But, scrutiny aside, she’s led to the office. 

“Miss Lucy Preston for you, sir.”

Flynn’s head whips up from the desk, his eyes widening a fraction as he takes her in. His mouth opens, then shuts, and he pushes back his chair to stand. 

“Thank you, Jane. You can go,” he says. Lucy decidedly does not jump when the door shuts behind her, but her hands do tighten around the book she’s carrying as she’s struck by the fact that they’re very much alone. Not that she minds necessarily—Maria Flynn has no great love for her, and for that Lucy can’t blame her—but at least if Maria had been around, Lucy would have had something else to focus on. Instead, there’s only Flynn himself, towering over her as usual, but with a softness in his eyes and the lines of his body that she wouldn’t have expected. 

“I heard about your father,” Flynn starts when she doesn’t move to speak. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Lucy nods, turning the book over in her hands. “Thank you,” she replies. “He—Mr. Mason said it was peaceful at least.”

“I meant to visit,” he acknowledges. “To pay my respects. I’ve been—”

“It’s alright,” Lucy interrupts. “I haven’t been up for many visitors as it is. But my aunt is here now to take me back with her to London.”

“To London?”

“Yes.” She turns the book over again, then holds it out to him. “I brought you this. Father always said you were one of his favorite students. He would have wanted you to have it.”

Their fingers brush when Flynn takes it from her, his mouth curving slightly when he catches the title. 

“I’ll treasure it always,” he promises before setting it aside on the desk. “He was a good man.”

“I know.”

“If there’s anything you need…” Flynn trails off and Lucy shakes her head. 

“My aunt has taken over everything,” she says. “I’m sure it’ll be...handled appropriately.”

“Right. Of course.” The air between them is stilted and awkward, his words not coming as easily as they usually do. But then, it’s also one of very few times there’s nothing for them to argue about. There’s no banter to be had, there are no sharp words to be spoken. Neither of them is likely to come away from this conversation bleeding, which is good, and yet...strange. 

“When do you leave?” He asks. 

“Today,” Lucy replies. “As soon as I return, actually. I just wanted to say goodbye. And give you…”

“The book.” Flynn nods, a shadow passing over his face that she can’t help feeling—or perhaps hoping—is disappointment. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t keep you.”

“Right,” Lucy echoes, her stomach sinking. She’s not sure if she wants him to stop her, isn’t sure if he could. But part of her at least wishes he would try. “Goodbye, then. Mr. Flynn.”

“Goodbye, Miss Preston.”

She doesn’t look at his face, can’t bear it, but his voice is carefully level, as though he’s holding back. Holding back what exactly, she can’t know—her thoughts are a wrenching mix of wild fantasy and practicality—but it would be for the best if she doesn’t give herself a chance to find out. With a lump in her throat that has nothing to do with her father, she turns toward the door. 

_Come on_ , she orders her feet. _Go._

A beat. Behind her, the desk creaks as Flynn pushes off of it, the air whispering around her as he takes a step in her direction. 

(And still, she’s glued to the floor.)

“Miss Preston—”

“He was my brother—”

They speak at the same time, the words rushed and tripping over one another. Flynn recovers himself first, shaking his head and taking another step, until she can just feel the heat coming off of him at her back. 

“What?” He asks.

“He—” Lucy closes her eyes and swallows hard, trying not to think about the fact that she could step back and just...fall into him. That contact would be so easy. “The man you saw me with at the train station—”

“Lucy, you don’t need to—”

“Let me finish,” she says, although god. _God_. She’s not unaware that he just used her name, almost as if against his will. Far too familiar, and yet...she wants to hear it again. 

“My parents used to think they couldn’t have children,” Lucy continues. “But they always wanted a son, so they took in an orphan boy. A few years later, by some miracle or strange happenstance, I came along. But they loved him—Wyatt, is his name—and so we were raised together like siblings. For all intents and purposes, he’s my brother, if not, admittedly, by blood. He wanted to see mother before she passed, that’s why he was here, and I was seeing him off at the station that night.”

“Why—” Flynn cuts himself off, clearing his throat roughly before trying again. “Why are you telling me now?”

(Perhaps...perhaps, just maybe, he’d been lying when he told her his feelings were gone.)

Despite his best efforts, his voice still rasps at her ear, too full of hope and possibility to come off as casual. One of his hands comes up to hang in the air by her shoulder, but he still doesn’t quite touch her. 

_You have to know,_ Lucy thinks. _Please don’t make me say it._

(She’s not convinced she could put words to the way she feels even if he did ask more specifically. Everything is muddled, clouded by the loss of her parents, of Amy, by her impending exit to London. It’s far too much to sort through in a moment. But she knows some things—she isn’t oblivious to the heat sparking in her blood, to the way she wants to close the space between them, to get closer than she’s ever been to a man. London means Noah and society and frivolity, means the slow death of the version of herself she’s found in Milton. London means a parade of men who expect her to be quiet and polite and not think for herself. She may not have much of a choice about going, but before she does, here, with Flynn, she wants—she just _wants._ )

“I suppose I...would hate for you to think badly of me,” she replies. 

“You haven’t seemed too concerned about that before.” 

Flynn touches her shoulder to gently turn her around and Lucy exhales shakily as his hand trails up her neck to finally tip her chin up. When her eyes flick open, his gaze is dark, and she wets her lips unconsciously. 

“Lucy…why?”

“Because I—” Her voice catches in her throat, words fading from her mind. 

It’s not a fully conscious choice to lean up on her toes, but Flynn bends down to meet her and their mouths catch and release. It’s a brief, fleeting thing, but it’s a match striking, a machine sputtering on. Lucy’s hands come up to grip his jacket and she pulls him back for more, desperate and wanting and needy. 

She’s been kissed before. On her hands, her cheek, once or twice on her lips, stolen pecks by too-forward suitors that left her intrigued, but with no ability, no position, to ask for more. Not when she didn’t want to marry any of them. But now...her parents are gone, she’s leaving Milton, leaving him, and Flynn...he’s no innocent, fumbling society boy. He’s been married. He knows how to touch a woman, how to kiss—she’s seen his passion before, when they’ve fought, but this is something different entirely. This is focused. Devastating. When he pulls back, it leaves her bereft.

(She wants so much more.)

Flynn’s hands slip down to her hips and flex hard enough that she feels it through her layers of skirts—when Lucy gasps, he tries to withdraw, but she covers his hands, holding them in place.

“Lucy—” He closes his eyes, a shiver rocking his body. 

(That day in her father’s study, Lucy rebuked him for not acting correctly, for speaking out of turn. It’s deeply ironic then, that now, in Flynn’s own office, the last thing she wants is for him to be a gentleman.)

“Please.” She tips her face up and kisses him again, soft, slow, pressing into him, asking as much with her body as her words. His tongue twines around hers and the heat that spikes through her drags a whine from her throat. Still kissing him, her hands slide his slowly up her waist, her sides—through her dress and corset she feels the pressure as his thumb roughly swipes against the underside of her breast, and she arches into him. 

Her head spins—it’s like being drunk, but instead of wine or spirits, it’s his mouth and hands that are intoxicating. She could drown in him. 

The next moment, one of Flynn’s arms wraps around her waist and he lifts her off the ground, setting her down on his desk. She bites at his lip, her hands sliding up his chest, clawing at his shoulders. She wants him closer. If this is the last chance she has, she _needs_ him closer. 

There’s a warmth and a wetness building between her legs, and she spreads them, letting him step between them and push her skirts up. 

“Garcia—” 

Flynn wrenches away, panting hard. He looks as devastated as Lucy feels, his mouth bruised, cheeks flushed. The idea that she did that...it’s a powerful thought. 

“We can’t,” he says, even as she pulls him in for another kiss. “Lucy—”

“Why not?” She breathes against his mouth. “Garcia, _please_ —”

Flynn’s hand drops to her thigh, fingertips ghosting over her skin. 

“It wouldn’t be...it isn’t…Lucy, you’re a lady.” Even as he says it though, his hand continues slipping up. 

Lucy shakes her head and kisses him harder. 

“Not right now,” she replies. “Right now, I—can I just be Lucy? Just for a few minutes?”

(Because Miss Lucy Preston is going to London. But Lucy—just Lucy—she’s the one with the North in her skin, in her bones. She’s the one who still can’t say it, but who _would_ marry him if he asked again. Miss Lucy Preston should be aghast at everything they’ve done, but Lucy...god, she would give him everything, let him ruin her, and would thank him for it.)

Flynn doesn’t answer in words, but he catches her mouth as his fingers meet her center, stroking lightly through her underclothes, and the kiss swallows her cry. They stay like that, barely more than a breath between their lips as he makes her shudder and sigh and moan. Her toes curl as something in her winds tighter and tighter, especially when he finally slips his hand beneath the fabric to where she’s hot and slick and aching. When the tension snaps, Lucy goes liquid and boneless, dropping her forehead to Flynn’s shoulder as she shakes through it. 

After a minute, Flynn steps back, letting her legs fall closed. She manages a small noise in protest, but he doesn’t seem inclined to give her more than he already had. 

“Do you have to go to London?” He asks quietly. 

Lucy wets her lips, chasing the taste of him, and meets his eyes. 

“That depends,” she replies. 

“On?”

_On whether you give me a reason to stay._

Except, Lucy has only just opened her mouth when there’s a knock at the door. 

“Sir? Your mother is here. She needs a word about the latest production schedule.”

Lucy freezes, then abruptly snaps back to herself, jumping off the desk and smoothing down her skirts, her hair, anything to try and make herself look like she hasn’t just been thoroughly ravished. 

“Lucy—”

“Garcia, really, there’s no need to keep me wait—” The door swings open, and Maria Flynn cuts herself off as she takes in the scene. 

“Miss Preston. I didn’t realize you were here. I was sorry to hear about your father.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Flynn,” Lucy replies shakily, hoping desperately that it can pass for grief rather than anything else. “I was just...leaving.”

Her gaze meets Flynn’s again, but his is full of nothing but regret. 

“I do hope you enjoy the book, Mr. Flynn,” she says. 

“I hope you enjoy...London,” he replies.

“I imagine it will be quite a change,” Lucy acknowledges. “And that I’ll miss...Milton. Quite a bit.” 

_Ask me to stay. Give me a reason._

But the moment is gone. 

“Goodbye, Miss Preston.”

Lucy nods. “Mr. Flynn. Mrs. Flynn.”

She sweeps out of the room almost too quickly to be polite, but her eyes burn with unshed tears. Her legs are shaky underneath her as she leaves the house, makes her way through the yard, and climbs back into the carriage. 

“Home, miss?”

Lucy swipes at her eyes. “Yes. Thank you.”

Home, then London. And already, those moments in Flynn’s office are fading away, seeming almost more a dream than reality. 

Something in her is pulled back toward Marlborough Mills, but she doesn’t let herself look out the window. She doesn’t let herself look back. 

(If she had, she would have seen Garcia Flynn, standing on the same balcony where she saved him from a mob of strikers, watching her go, praying for one more glimpse of her.)


	2. Flynn

_What just happened?_

Flynn stares at his office door, frozen as Lucy disappears through it as quickly as if she were being chased by hellhounds. He can still taste her on his lips, can still feel the lingering echoes of her body against his, the silk of her skin under his fingers. It was too far, to be sure. He had no right taking such liberties with a woman he has no official attachment to, especially one who has rejected him in the past, and yet—

_Garcia, please—_

—she begged him. Begged him and pulled him close and kissed him as though she would die if he stopped, and in his own desperation, he was helpless to deny her. 

(But then, he always has been when it comes to her.)

“Garcia?” His mother’s voice snaps him out of his reverie—Flynn clears his throat roughly, running a hand over his jaw. 

“Sorry, mother, I—”

_Do you have to go to London?_

_That depends._

_On?_

Had Lucy wanted him to propose? Is that what she was going to say before they were interrupted? Even the thought of it steals his breath—her first rejection hurt far more than he let most people see, and although they’ve had moments of civility or even possible friendship since then, just as many have been rife with misunderstandings and bitterness. 

And yet...she came to say goodbye. She wanted to see him one last time. She told him about her brother, correcting his assumptions even when she had no obligation to. 

She kissed him. _She_ kissed _him_. And if there’s even a chance...

“Garcia?” Maria touches his shoulder then, and Flynn starts. “What’s wrong?”

Flynn doesn’t answer, bolting from the room instead. If only he can catch her—

But no. 

Flynn gets as far as the window by the balcony before he sees the carriage pulling away from the main gate. He’s too late. 

Stepping outside, he watches the carriage roll down the road as his stomach sinks. He loves her. He _loves_ her. 

And she’s gone. 

“Look back,” he breathes, half a prayer, as if he can speak a final glimpse of her into existence. “Look back at me.” 

_Please._

He watches until the carriage has disappeared, but Lucy never looks back. That’s it, then. She’s gone. 

Flynn is slow to return to the office. He doesn’t want to answer questions, doesn’t know how to begin to explain his abrupt departure. 

(When Lorena and Iris died, he’d been destroyed. He spent two weeks staring down the bottom of glass, wishing he could join them. Shut down, closed himself off. And then he met Lucy and it was like waking up. Losing her now is far from the same devastation he recalls from years ago, but there’s a hollow ache in his chest nonetheless that doesn’t want to leave.)

“Should I ask what happened before I walked in?” Maria asks when he steps through the office door again. 

_Lucy, you’re a lady._

_Not right now._

Flynn closes the door slowly, not looking over at her or the desk when the image of Lucy is still so fresh in his mind. 

“No,” he replies. 

“Are you all right?”

Flynn’s chest tightens and he rests his head against the frame, breathing through the ache. 

“No.”

The floor creaks as Maria crosses the room, and the next moment her arms come around him as if he’s twelve years old again with scraped knees and elbows and all she wants is to make it right. He allows it for a few moments, then releases a shuddering exhale and pulls away. 

“The production schedule?” He says. 

Maria gives him a long look, but doesn’t press, instead stepping back with a nod. “Right. The number of shifts that we need to fill this next order...”

Flynn buries himself in work to avoid thinking about Lucy. If he were younger, bolder, less jaded, he might go to London himself and try to finish their interrupted conversation. But as months pass and business takes a sharp turn for the worse, justifying such a trip, justifying asking her to tie herself to a sinking ship...no. He can’t do it. He’s not so selfish as that. Even if Lucy did want him before, he’s not such a fool to expect that she would still. 

 

When Connor Mason comes to visit Marlborough Mills again, bringing the dual news of his impending travels and the fact that he signed the bulk of his fortune over to Lucy, it’s bittersweet. Lucy may very well have a reason to travel back to Milton to oversee her new holdings, but with his own circumstances so reduced...well. Flynn doesn’t expect to see her as her tenant at the mill, to say the least. No, he’ll find somewhere else to go, find something else to do with his life. He’ll leave Marlborough Mills and Milton behind, and Lucy—Lucy will be fine. With Mason’s fortune behind her, she won’t ever have to marry if she doesn’t want to. She can just live. 

(All he wants is for her to be happy. She doesn’t need him for that.)

“She asked after you the other day, you know,” Mason says, right before he leaves. “Miss Preston, that is.”

Even a month ago, Flynn might have loved to hear such a thing. But after an hour of sorting through schedules and accounts, managing out the final death knell of his business, he can hardly bear it.

“I never took you for a gossip, Mason,” he replies once it’s clear some response it expected.

“And I never took you for a coward, Flynn.”

He glances up from the desk then, shooting the other man a look that anyone else would take as a warning. Mason, however, appears more amused by it than anything. 

“I’m not a coward.”

“No?” Mason raises an eyebrow and curls his hands around his walking stick. “Because from where I’m standing there doesn’t seem to be another explanation for why my goddaughter is in London right now, still wearing black every day and asking about this place every chance she gets. I know it’s not the manufacturing business she wants news of.”

“She has other friends in Milton—”

Mason scoffs. “Yes, and she writes to Henry Wallace and Jiya Marri regularly. But with you, she’s gotten it in her head that you wouldn’t want to hear from her. Seems to think she acted badly at your last meeting or something of the sort.” 

_Garcia, please—_

Flynn rubs at his forehead, shaking his head.

_Lucy…_

“No,” he replies. “No, she—she did nothing wrong.”

“Good God, man, then what is the problem?” Mason asks. “A blind man could see that the two of you are utterly besotted fools. If you say you’re no coward and she’s done nothing to cause offense, then why in bloody hell haven’t you gone to London?”

“And say what?” Flynn’s jaw ticks as he rakes a hand through his hair. “What would you have me do? Ask her to marry me at a time when she’s conveniently come into money? At a time when I just happen to be desperately in need of some? Would you have me go to her even if it means she would always wonder if it was mere convenience on my part?”

“Flynn—”

“I won’t do it. I couldn’t—she deserves better.”

“I don’t disagree,” Mason replies. “And yet, my opinion isn’t the one that matters. She’s made her choice.”

Flynn opens his mouth to argue on instinct, but his mind blanks out, any comeback dying in his throat. Mason stares at him for a long moment, as though waiting him out, then nods once and opens the door. 

“Have a good day, Mr. Flynn. And think about what I said.”

“Safe travels, Mr. Mason,” Flynn forces out. 

As the door closes, he sits back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling. He meant what he said. He can’t ask her now. And yet, Mason’s words echo in his head.

_She’s made her choice._

_Has she?_

He doesn’t leave the office for a long time.

* * *

Marlborough Mills closes a week later. The whistle echoes, the machines stop. It’s done. It’s over. 

And Flynn...Flynn goes to Helstone. 

It’s not quite a conscious choice—he’s halfway through buying the train ticket before he realizes, but he can’t argue with the desire. Lucy always described the South as a paradise. Somewhere peaceful and warm and full of light. Full of clarity. 

He could use some clarity. 

(He could use _Lucy_. But if he can’t seek her out, he can at least see the place where she grew up. The place that helped shape her into the fierce, beautiful woman who slipped through his walls and into his heart before he ever thought anyone could again. That at least is close enough.)

When Flynn steps off the train, he wanders. There’s nothing else for him to do. Nothing to get back to but his mother and an empty house that won’t be his for much longer. No, he can take his time. And so he does.

Helstone is beautiful. Quiet. Calm. Just as Lucy said. After years hearing the buzz of machines and the blow of whistles day after day, hour after hour, the silence is almost disconcerting. Silence then, is his solemn companion as he strolls through the hedgerows. In its company, with the sun on his face, he can almost forget everything else. His past, his present, the uncertainty of his future—he can forget it all and just be. 

After awhile, he comes across a patch of rose bushes, heavily trimmed back and nearly buried by the other hedges, but there are still a few buds coming into bloom. Somehow, Flynn can’t help but smile at the sight.

_Resilient little things._

Like Lucy. It makes sense that these would be her favorite flower.

On a whim, he clips one off the stem, taking care not to snag himself on the surrounding thorns. And then, he turns and starts back towards the station. 

(He may not have intended the trip when he set off in the morning, may not have known exactly what exactly he was looking for even once he was set in his course, and yet he knows when he’s he’s found it.)

It’s a long ride back to Milton, but Flynn can’t regret the trip. Not when he’s more settled than he’s felt in years. 

After a few hours, the train pulls into another station, an announcement coming that there will be a delay as they wait for another train to pass. Itching with the desire to stretch his legs before making the rest of the journey, he reaches for the compartment door and looks out, only for his breath to catch in his chest.

_Lucy._

At first, Flynn isn’t convinced she’s real. He’s been thinking of her, he’s wanted to see her for months, it could just be a trick of his mind. But then, she turns, he own gaze setting on him, and her lips part in surprise. 

(She’s a vision, and he can’t help being pulled to her radiance like a flower to the sun.)

He never imagined, never let himself seriously believe he would see her again, and yet he steps out of the carriage and crosses the platform in a few long strides. For a moment, they both stare at one another, words escaping him. But finally, Flynn remembers himself, clearing his throat and asking, “Where are you going?”

“To London,” Lucy replies, and he makes it halfway through thinking, _of course_ , when she adds, “I’ve—I’ve been to Milton.”

When Lucy doesn’t seem inclined to say anything further, Flynn wets his lips and reaches into his pocket, drawing out the rose he clipped.

“You might guess where I’ve been,” he offers.

“To Helstone?” Lucy lights up as she reaches for it, her fingers brushing against his palm as she strokes the petals in disbelief. It’s quick, but enough to make him shiver nonetheless. God, he’s missed her. “I thought those had all gone.”

Flynn slowly shakes his head.

“I found it in the hedgerow. You have to look hard,” he explains. There’s something bubbling up in his chest, hope and anxiety mixing with all the love he’s tried so hard to set aside. “Why were you in Milton?”

Lucy blinks as if suddenly remembering, and her gaze drops to her hands, her fingers twisting together around the rose.

“On business,” she says. “That is, I have a business proposition.”

She looks over her shoulder at the other train, biting her lip. “I need Noah to help me explain.”

Without thinking, Flynn sets a hand on her arm. “You don’t need Noah to explain,” he replies quietly. He thinks she might argue when she glances over her shoulder again, but she follows when he settles on the bench a few steps away. 

“I have to get this right,” Lucy says as she sits. “It’s a business proposition.”

Flynn doesn’t interrupt, even as he fights back a smile and the urge to remind her that she said that already. He’s seen a lot of emotions from Lucy, but nervousness isn’t one he’s used to. 

“I have some fifteen thousand pounds,” she continues, fingers twisting in her skirts. “It’s lying in the bank at present, earning very little interest. Now, my financial advisors tell me that if you were to take this money and use it to run Marlborough Mills, you could give me a very much better rate of...interest.”

He wouldn’t have been able stop his smile then even if he still wanted to. It’s impossible not to understand what she’s saying, and he’s breathless—breathless and in awe with how much he loves this woman. This utterly maddening, wonderful woman. Nothing. No word for months, and then she appears in his hour of greatest need to be his savior—he couldn’t bring himself to ask it of her himself, but she’s sitting in front of him, offering and he loves, he loves, he _loves_ her— 

 

“So you see,” Lucy continues, dropping her eyes to her hands. “...it is only a _business_ matter. You would not be obliged to me in any way. It is you who would be doing...me the service.”

Part of Flynn wants to laugh at the sheer incredulity of the statement. Not obliged to her? Can she not know that she already owns him, heart and soul? Can she not see? 

Her words are stilted as if she’s afraid of rejection, and perhaps she is. But what a thought. He could never reject her. How could he, when he wants nothing more in the world than to never be parted from her again?

It’s that thought which causes him to cover Lucy’s hands with one of his, and her breath catches. The next moment, she lifts his hand to her lips.

(It’s far more innocent than their tryst in his office, and yet that simple gesture threatens to undo him completely. It’s achingly intimate, and if he had any lingering doubts as to her feelings, that kiss would have banished them.)

“Lucy…”

She raises her head, and Flynn’s free hand reaches out slowly, cupping her cheek, his fingers brushing her ear as he tips his head and leans in. 

Their kisses the day she left were desperate and heated, as though if they simply clung together fiercely enough, nothing could separate them. This kiss is a gentle, fragile thing, as much a question at first as a kiss. 

Lucy drops his hand in favor of curling her fingers in the front of his shirt, returning the kiss with the same quiet sweetness he offered her. He doesn’t pay any mind to the fact that they’re in public, that he hasn’t seen her in months. If a kiss could be a homecoming, this would be it. 

A whistle blows and they break apart slowly, a flush spreading across Lucy’s cheeks as she bites back a smile. 

“Garcia…”

“London train, preparing for departure! London train!” 

Lucy’s face drops at the announcement, and she looks between Flynn and the train once before standing. 

“Lucy—”

Shaking her head, she turns toward the train, and Flynn’s stomach sinks. Could he have misunderstood? For once, they seemed to be clearly on the same page, and yet—

“Garcia?” As quickly as she’d gone, Lucy returns to his side, a valise in one hand. Over her shoulder, the dark-haired man Flynn can only assume is the “Noah” she referred to is glaring daggers at him. 

“Coming home with me?” Flynn asks, his hope flooding back.

Instead of answering directly, Lucy takes his hand with her free one, lacing their fingers and pulling him toward the Milton-bound train. In the compartment, she presses close to his side, a sigh escaping her as his arm settles around her shoulders. 

“I love you,” she murmurs, tipping her face up so he can kiss her again. “In case that wasn’t clear.”

“I never stopped,” Flynn replies. “Loving you. I don’t think I could have if I tried.”

Another whistle blows and their train lurches, the wheels starting up again. No turning back.

As the train pulls away from the station, Lucy spares one last glance out the window before looking back to him. 

“I don’t have anywhere to stay in Milton,” she says. “I suppose I didn’t quite think this through.”

Flynn hums and kisses her again. 

“Stay with me?”

Her lips curve into a smile as she tucks her head into his neck. “For how long?”

“As long as you’d like.”

“That’s quite an offer, Mr. Flynn,” Lucy teases. “You have to be careful. I might never leave.”

Flynn’s fingers trace a pattern on her arm as he shifts to pull her closer. 

“Well, Miss Preston,” he replies. “It would take some getting used to, but I think I could live with that.”

“Do you?”

“I do.” 

(And he does.)


End file.
